One Thousand Years of Peace
by Estomayka
Summary: One thousand years after the fall of Sauron, the long peace is finally broken. But where do you find heroes among ordinary men?
1. Chapter One: Dawn

_Author's note and_ _disclaimer: I don't own LOTR, or any parts thereof. Alastair, however is mine. Comments, criticism, and rambling responses eagerly awaited!_

**Chapter One**  
  
One thousand years of peace.

A luxurious sigh clouded on the frosty air, panted from the mouth of a lone rider. A dark warm cloak was drawn about him for comfort, the gentle clop of his black horse's hooves thudding against the damp loam. The last evening's rains had cleared for a misty dawn, pale golds and oranges painting the morning sky. The traveler's hair was still damp, a dark mahogany that fell to his shoulders, his skin faintly tanned by the sun. A smile traced his lips at the twill of birdsong in the large trees above, shading his tall, lithe form from the rising sun, his gray eyes glittering in the shadows.

One thousand years since the fall of Mordor. Such a shame all he had heard were the tales from the lips of his trainer, of the great last battle, of all the ancient heroes that had faded away across the sea and to the shadows of time. He looked down at a silver ring on his finger, imagining for a moment he had taken the place of one of those glorious heroes. The lad was still young, really, only sixteen, only old enough to travel alone, young enough to daydream still.

His horse snorted, ears pricking as a forehoof struck the earth out of time with the rest, nostrils flaring with some unknown scent. His rider paid him no heed, touching the sword at his hip, imagining the shining blade whirling at the head of some vile orc. The blade was of an older make, by the hands of men and lightly touched with the magic of the ancient elves.

He sighed at the thought. Even the fair immortals were all but lost to legend, faded into the West. He closed his eyes for a few moments, his horse snorting softly again. The stallion danced a few steps, ears pricked and neck arched warily. Then again, the animal had always been rather skittish, no more than a pack animal, meant as a runner for messages between towns.

The lad opened his eyes again at the snap of a twig. Of course, there was never any danger in these parts; he knew the lands well, and never had he seen more than a few deer, and once a wandering bear when he was younger. Still, he listened closer, frowning as his stallion backed up a bit with nostrils flared.

"What's the matter with you, Bolt?" He murmured to the horse, holding the reins a bit firmer. "It's probably just a squirrel..."

The stallion whinnied, shying away again and rolling his eyes. Suddenly, he reared, and his rider was thrown in his surprise. He hit the ground hard, rolled a few paces, then looked up in time to see his horse galloping away, tail and mane streaming out behind him.

"Bolt! Bolt!" He cried uselessly, scowling as he picked himself up. The fool of a horse, spooking over—

He stopped, wrinkling his nose as some foul odor suddenly drifted to him, the stink of blood and decay, mud and sweat and grime. His hand fell to his sword, slowly turning towards where he had heard the sound of the snapping twig. The breeze blew straight towards him, blowing his hair back out of his face again.

With a sudden _thunk,_ an arrow buried into the tree alongside his head. Eyes widening, he stared at it for a moment, then hastily drew his sword. It was still a bit long and heavy for him, made for a full-bloomed adult, but he could manage it well enough. To the dark woods he called: "I am Alastair, son of Lobane, son of Endrod! Who goes there?"

The list of names, truly, was rather unimpressive. No great heroes or warriors in his lineage, simple soldiers and wanderers, even a few of more unsavory origins. No one extraordinarily good or evil, no Kings of light or dark. Still, his call to the woods came bold. It was probably just some mistaken hunter, anyway; there had never been any foul creatures in these parts, not since the shadow was cleared from Middle-Earth.

A harsh cackle came at his demand, and his eyes widened further when he saw a somewhat stooped, dirty, and ugly form come out of the shadows and for him. Red slitted eyes blinked curiously at him, wide mouth curled into a wicked smirk. Tattered clothing hung off red-painted, or perhaps bloodstained, skin, a chipped, curved scimitar in a clawed hand. Four others of equal vulgarity stumped behind him. Goblins, Alastair realized, his heart jumping into his throat as he held his sword out before him still. Goblins in their peaceful wood!

One of the five clicked his teeth, looking over the lad. "Now what's a tasty little morsel like you doin' out 'ere all alone?"

Another ran his claw along a dented, but sharp, ax. "Where's all the rest of your stinkin' village, eh?"

Slowly, the goblins were spreading out as they came towards him, fanning around him. Alastair stumbled back a bit, putting his back to a tree. He straightened up, doing his best to look intimidating. "What is your business here?" He demanded, raising his voice, his knuckles white as he clenched his sword. "Begone!"

The goblins cackled. "Or what?" One challenged, tilting his head and licking his lips. "_You're _goin' to stop us?"

One of the foul creatures made a grab for him, and on instinct he whirled, flashing his heavy sword. The blade bit into the goblin's chest, and it fell back with a shrill shriek, black blood staining the shining weapon and splattering onto the young man's hands. He recoiled in disgust, but didn't have any time to contemplate the last twitches of the creature. The other four immediately leapt on him.

Alastair hit the ground breathless, but slashing, his sword flashing in the growing sunlight, taking out the first two. He cried out in surprise as a dagger was thrust towards his stomach. He rolled enough to avoid the intended blow, scraping his skin and pinning his cloak and tunic to the damp earth, instead. He kicked up, knocking his attacker windless. Ripping loose, he bulled his shoulder into the last standing goblin, then thrust at him. His sword took the creature through the stomach, before it slid off with a gurgle.

Alastair, shaking with adrenaline, looked down at the last live goblin, who sneered up at him, scrambling back and away. "Begone!" He repeated, his voice not as strong, trembling, really, but his sword was steady, pointing at his attacker.

The goblin regained his feet, hissing, and backing away. He spat at the ground at the lad's feet. "Jus' you wait, you whelp. Jus' you wait..." Backing away still, the goblin faded off into the shadows, snarling and muttering to himself still.

Alastair looked down at the four dead goblins at his feet, then at his blade stained with black blood. His knees were shaking, stunned. Slowly, the light of battle faded from his eyes. His _first _battle. It had all happened so quickly...he could hardly believe it. No, he _couldn't _believe it. Looking back, he called for his horse again, but the forest was empty. Even the birds had quieted. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, his mouth dry, he sheathed his sword again. He had a scratch on his side, his left cheek was gashed open, and his right hand was cut, but he was none the worse for wear. The realization hit him, and he smiled, albeit painfully. Out of pure relief he laughed to the morning air, shaking his hair from his face.

Then, he looked after where the last goblin had disappeared. What if there were more of them? Gathering himself again, he turned and ran off back towards his village. There was evil in his home. He had to tell the others, warn them.

One thousand years of peace could only last so long.


	2. Chapter Two: Midday Shadows

_Author's Note and Disclaimer: I still don't own LOTR. Though, I wish I did. Then I could steal Aragorn and give Arwen to the orcs. ...Did I say that aloud? Read and review!_  
  
**Chapter Two**  
  
Footsteps slapped against the rough cobblestones, echoing to the waking town as Alastair came running up the main road, his cloak streaming out behind him like an alerting banner. Without pause, he continued towards the largest house in the humble town; the home of their Lord and caretaker. A few doors lazily opened as he ran by, people only just starting to come awake and mill about on the autumn morn.

"Woah, there, Alastair, what's the rush?" One of the guards raised a brow as the young man came panting to a halt before the door of the Lord's keep. "Did you see a ghost or what?"

Alastair shook his head, catching breath enough to speak a single word. "Goblins!"

The two guards looked at each other, leaning on their spears lightly, then smiled, the first speaking again. "Come, now, lad, aren't you a bit old to be crying wolf?" He paused, then, putting his hand beneath Alastair's chin and tilting up his head, turning it to one side to see the cut on his cheek. "Did you fall off your horse?"

In response, he shook his head again, and pulled out his sword. It was still covered in black blood. "No." He replied, taking in a deep breath. "I need to speak with Lord Kalamar."

"Yes...yes, of course. At once."

Alastair bowed his head politely as he finished his tale, before looking back up to Lord Kalamar. The Lord of Aralda was a reserved man, tall, stately, and rather lanky, really. He was clad in dark brown robes, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his chair as he studied the young man before him with cool blue eyes. "Well, then, Alastair, son of Lobane, I would count you very fortunate to be able to return to tell this tale to me, if what you say is true."

"Yes, sir." Alastair waited, shifting on his feet a bit anxiously.

"Are you sure there were no more?" The Lord asked, leaning forward a bit.

"None that I saw, my Lord."

Thoughtfully, Kalamar sank back again. "They were probably no more than a band of thieves that thought they had found an easy target. Valdín," he called to one of the guards at the door, "take another and rid the woods of the last goblin. Then we shall have no more incidents such as this. Dismissed."

Frustrated, but polite, Alastair bowed, and then walked out. Valdín smiled reassuringly at him, clapping him on the shoulder as he shut the heavy door behind them both. "Smile, lad, there's nothing to worry about."

Alastair nodded, though wasn't very convinced.

Valdín paused, and then went on. "How would you like to come with me to get that last goblin? Go get yourself cleaned up and your horse saddled, and I'll meet you at the edge of the forest."

The young man nodded again, then walked off towards his house, kicking at a loose cobblestone. Somehow, he wasn't very convinced that it was just a single party of thieves. If that were so, wouldn't they have seen some of like kind before? They didn't act like thieves, either, at least, not the way he had heard of troops of criminals act. Still, he couldn't exactly argue with the Lord, now could he? Alastair pushed open the door to his house, brushing his hair back from his face.

"Alastair, there you are! I was worried sick about you, Bolt came running into town without you, and I was sure you'd fallen off and broken a leg."

The young man smiled reassuringly at his mother, looking down (for he was taller than her, by now) into her worried eyes. "I'm fine, Mother. I just..." He decided it was better not to tell her the truth, "was riding, and he spooked and I fell off. I just got a little scraped up." He dunked a cloth in a bucket of water, taking it to his cheek and cleaning out the wound.

"Alastair...what's that on your sword?"

He looked down, cloth still against his cheek, at the stain on his scabbard. "Just...blackberry juice. I scraped against a bush coming home." He didn't look at her as he spoke, cleaning off his hand, as well. "Valdín is going to take me out hunting...do you think I could ride Nartal, instead? Bolt spooks too much."

"I suppose...just be careful with her."

Alastair nodded, kissing his mother on the cheek. She smiled at him, fixing his cloak and ruffling his hair. "My little boy, the big hunter, now. Just be careful."

"I will," he assured, wrinkling his nose a bit. Still, he couldn't blame her for worrying so, even in such a time of peace. His father had gone off to travel to Gondor five years ago, and had never returned. The trip shouldn't have taken any longer than three months.

The young man walked to the small stable in back of their house, pulling out a chestnut mare, her mane a darker, fiery shade. She had just been a filly, out of his father's mare, when he had left. She had hardly been ridden, supposedly a birthday present to Alastair when he was eighteen, instead of the old, stubborn, and skittish Bolt, but with no one else to ride her...well, she had taken to the lad, anyway. He patted her neck fondly before swinging himself into the saddle and taking up the reins. Valdín was waiting for him by the woods by the time he arrived. The guard had a longbow strapped to his back, and a small quiver of arrows, tipped with white feathers.

"Ready to go, lad?"

Alastair nodded.

"Good," the older man smiled. "Take me to where you ran into them, and we can track them from there."

With another nod, the young man urged his horse forward. They rode in silence after that, the only sound the dull clop of hooves. The stench of the corpses wafted to them on the breeze before the carcasses came in sight. Alastair wrinkled his nose, shivering for a moment in memory.

"Vile things, aren't they?" Valdín commented, pulling his horse to a halt alongside one of the bodies.

"The other one ran off that way," the young man pointed, his mare stepping forward a few paces.

"Well," the guard smiled. "Let's get after him, then. This whole episode will be over and done with before you know it, Alastair. There's nothing to worry about. Just the last dying shadows in the midday sun."


	3. Chapter Three: Night

_Author's Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR, yadda yadda yadda. Don't sue me, I'm just a starving artist._  
  
**Chapter Three**  
  
"I hear something ahead."

Valdín nodded to Alastair's whisper, the young man moving his mare closer to the guard's side. "I hear it, too," he agreed, pulling out an arrow from his quiver, and swinging his bow from his shoulders. "We'll catch him running." They moved forward slowly, keeping a tight hold on the reins, the horses picking their way across the loam.

Alastair frowned as the wind came into their face, wrinkling his nose. "I smell something burning." And that same horrid, rotting smell of the goblins.

"He's probably set himself up a little camp, is all." Valdín assured.

The lad wasn't convinced; it seemed too strong for a single goblin with a single fire. "We're coming up on the field." His mouth was still open to say more when they came upon the end to the small wood. A field golden in the autumn air had once been there. Now...now it was a sea of black, red, green, small fires and flashing steel. The grasses were trampled and torn beneath the marching claws of one thousand, two thousand, an uncountable number of orcs.

Valdín yanked hard on the bridle of his steed to keep it quiet, then whirled with a fierce whisper to Alastair. "Back to Aralda, quick as you can!" The pounding of hooves alerted the goblins too slowly of the presence of spies, the two horses galloping full speed side by side back towards the small town. Loam flew from their hooves, manes streaming into the faces of their riders.

"Sound the bells! Alert Lord Kalamar! Rally to me!"

Valdín came galloping into town yelling all ready, Alastair at his heels. The village came alive as a bronze bell gave three tolls of sharp alert. Kalamar came running out of his chambers with robes caught and fluttering in the wind. His icy eyes flashed, awaiting the pair as they reined in their horses and slipped off. The young man stepped off to the side, leading Nartal away from the hubbub that ensued. Valdín stepped off his mount and onto a low wall, balancing there above the crowd and holding up his hands.

"My good people! A grave danger lies at our very doorstep!" Murmurs flitted through the crowd, then settled again as he waved for quiet. "Just past the edge of the woodlands, a hoard of orcs has gathered in numbers too great to count. We must prepare for their coming!"

"Valdín!" Lord Kalamar's voice cut in sharply, eyes blazing. "Step down from there, and stop these foolish warmongerings."

The guard, taken aback, sat down on the fence, the silent crowd looking hopefully towards their Lord. Kalamar smiled, holding out his hands. "Calm yourselves, my people. Orcs will not bother a little town such as ours. I'm sure they are just passing through onto Gondor. Warriors from the white city will ride out and meet them. We are in no state for war. Refrain from attacking them, and they shall not attack us. Stay silent, stay at home, and they will pass us unmolested."

"But, sir!" Valdín protested.

"They will pass." Kalamar repeated. "One thousand years of peace will not be broken by a few wandering orcs."

"A few?" Alastair's murmur of disbelief was heard clearly in the uneasy silence of the crowd.

The Lord of Aralda turned to the young man. "Do you doubt my words? What do you know of war, child? Do you wish death upon this house? Do you wish to ride out and vanish into the wilds like your father? They will pass. It will all pass..."

* * *

Alastair watched the light of a single flame dance before his eyes, sitting at a round wooden table in his home. He could hear his mother fixing his torn clothing in the next room, humming an old story-song to herself. The young man closed his eyes, dipping a quill into the inkwell before him, unrolling a length of parchment. In a neat calligraphy, he began to write:  
  
_ "Talk of war remains in Aralda, and I cannot help but dwell on it. War  
comes and goes the same way as the passing days, it seems, by what  
stories I've heard. The shadow is hardly a thought at midday, at the  
height of peace, though it slowly grows behind you as you face the  
Havens in the West. Looming, the shadow grows beyond your height and  
breadth, before it consumes you in the night dark. Then, a fighting  
glimmer in the East throws the shadow before you, to face and stare  
down, until it diminishes and shrinks beneath you. Yet, it never fully  
leaves, just waits until you're not looking to start growing again.  
For one thousand years, it has been waiting. The sun cannot last  
forever."_

Alastair looked up at a hand on his shoulder. His mother leaned over, resting her chin gently on the top of his head. "Everything will be all right."

"Yes," he murmured, letting the quill rest in the well again, waiting for the ink to dry.

"The night's growing old, Alastair. You should get some sleep."

"I will," he assured, rolling the parchment and standing. Taking a bit of the candle's melted wax, he pressed a seal to keep the paper rolled. "In a little while, I will. Good night, mother."

He smiled, faintly, as she kissed his cheek and retired to bed, but his expression soon faded. Tucking the parchment into his belt, he stood. His sword hung ready over the mantle again, clean, shining in the candlelight. Alastair snuffed the small flame, taking up his blade again and stepping out back.

"Nartal."

The fiery mare lifted her head at her name, stamping a hoof. She waited patiently as she was saddled again, her rider swinging up onto her back. Then, the lad paused, having her walk slowly onto the main street. Steeling himself, he let her go, holding on only to keep himself steady. She took off into the woods, her rider clinging to her back. Trees flew past them on all sides until the stench of orc rode foul on the air towards them. Alastair straightened up, slowing her and staring ahead, hearing the ripple of coarse voices, orc shouts and snarls. The army was moving.

Nartal snorted, tossing her proud head. Alastair backed her up as twigs snapped and popped under the marching goblins, the moving army passing within a few feet of the pair. The young man froze, hardly breathing as he watched the passing hoard. Gruesome faces floated on the misty night, with scowls and wicked helms, bony spines and ragged clothes, dark armor and twisted weapons. Then, their voices lifted together in a discordant melody, enough to make the young man's blood run cold from the sound.

_ "Sound the drums  
Thunder of war  
Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!  
Let the cries of  
Men scream out  
Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!  
Break their bones  
And burn their homes  
Crack! Crack! Crack!  
Let the shadow  
Pull them down  
Black! Black! Black!"_

On and on they went, an endless sea, enough to make the most stoic mortal despair. Alastair, frozen, waited, his hands shaking, clenching the reins until his knuckles were white. His jaw clenched, his eyes turning paler. One hand pried from the leather lead, and slowly drew his sword. They would not take Aralda. They would not sweep the rolling lands of Rohan, and the stately Gondor beyond. They would not reclaim the wastelands of Morder as a center of evil again. They would not!

Nartal whinnied and reared as Alastair tried to urge her into the mass of twisted forms. She came down to earth, whirled, and plowed over two goblins that had been coming up on them from behind. Alastair slashed down on them with a feral yell of battle, echoing into the night. He jumped from the mare's back, whirled his sword at the head of a sneering orc, and then fell halfway as a club connected to the back of his head.


End file.
